


Milk Carton Kids

by yoongqi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Character Death, Human Trafficking, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture, sad stuff ergh sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoongqi/pseuds/yoongqi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Time is now abstract, but not of the essence. Any and all meaning it once held has been destroyed, leaving Harry unsure of whether weeks have passed or months. Time seems never ending now, no one to talk to, nothing to do, no motivation for either even if they were options. "</p><p>Sometimes, we try to save people. Sometimes, people try to save us. And sometimes, we fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk Carton Kids

**Author's Note:**

> This story was around a three-week process to write, and is also the longest "one shot" I've ever done. It didn't turn out quite as emotionally as I wanted, and I'm honestly not sure how I feel about it, but since I'm never sure about my writing, I'm posting it anyways... I hope I'm not hated for it.
> 
> As a fair warning, though the torture/death in this isn't extremely graphic, it's still disturbing, I think. I know some people aren't comfortable with that stuff at all, so I want everyone to be aware that it's there before they begin reading.
> 
> [This is on Wattpad under the same username]

When Harry opens his eyes, he’s not even entirely certain that he really  _does_. He feels his muscles move and hears his thoughts processing, thinking he’s looking at  _something_ , but it’s all just pure blackness, so he’s not sure.

Wherever he is though, Harry’s confident it’s not somewhere he’s familiar with. It’s not the dorm at his university – though he wouldn’t put it past his dorm mates to play such a stupid joke on him – nor any other place he’s lived before. He can just barely make out what feels like cold concrete beneath his hands and a soft fabric under his head that feels like a scratchy wool material, a blanket of some sort.

Wearily, Harry sits up to feel his head pound uncontrollably. The last thing he can really remember is going out to a pub with a few friends to start the school year off, and he wonders if the headache is a hangover or something else. Maybe he got drunk enough to actually wander off and land himself some place shady, like this. It’s sadly plausible.

Not feeling well enough to stand, Harry begins blindly moving forward on his hands and knees, searching for anything to help him out. It doesn’t take long for him to realize there’s nothing around on the ground, and when he checks his pockets, his phone and wallet are missing.

“Shit,” he curses lowly, considering his wallet has his driver’s license  _and_ cards, and he really doesn’t want to have to deal with the hassle of getting a new phone.

Beginning to get really annoyed at this point, Harry continues crawling forward, only to smack headfirst into something, something hard as hell. Letting out a small noise of pain, he jumps back and rubs his forehead, wondering what the hell that was.

This time, Harry reaches out his hands first, so as to not run into the thing again that didn’t quite feel like a wall, but was close. His hands suddenly come into contact with it, and his fingers wrap around something that feels like a cold, metal pole. His other hand does the same then, but goes around a pole  _next_  to the first one.

 _What the hell_ , Harry thinks, before running his hands to the left and right to feel more of the poles, far enough apart that he can stick his arm through, but nothing else.

It takes a moment of careful consideration, but with a start, Harry realizes these are like the bars of a jail cell, and he can’t tell if he’s on the inside or out.

Harry begins to panic a bit internally, scrambling backward and trying to feel for another wall or more bars or  _anything_  that will help him get his bearings. He’s completely lost in the dark and the only sound he can hear is his hands slapping down against the concrete.

“What are you doing?”

Harry freezes at the small voice that suddenly materializes from the darkness. It sounds like it came from his right, so he slowly turns his head and tries to see anything or anyone, but comes up empty.

“Who’s there?” He whispers in response.

The second time, the voice sounds much smaller, more like a child than anything. “Adam,” it says with hesitancy. “Who’re you?”

Harry gulps, realizing that it  _is_ a child, or someone that can mimic one incredibly well. “I’m Harry,” he answers softly, pausing when he hears no response. “Where are you Adam? Can you see me?”

“A little, yeah.”

Harry wonders how long this person has been here to be able to see in such terrible darkness. Instead of asking though, he says, “Adam, can you follow my voice and come here?”

There’s silence before Adam answers. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he says quietly then.

Harry knows that this is a child then, by the sound of it, a very young one, not more than seven. He’s still not sure what he’s doing there with him, but even so, it’s a bit comforting to know he’s not completely alone. “I promise I won’t hurt you,” he tries to assure.

“That’s what they said too… and now I’m here,” this time it’s more of a whimper spoken. “They’re liars. How do I know you’re not a liar too?” Now he sounds on the verge of tears, and Harry is completely lost and scared now, though probably not more than this poor kid.

“Who, Adam?” He asks. “Who are ‘they’?”

“The man that brought me here and his friends. Mum went to get ice cream and they came while I was on the swings. They said they wouldn’t hurt me, and they did.”

Harry feels a sudden chill wash over him, seeping through his pores to the very marrow of his bones. This boy, Adam, is telling him that he was  _kidnapped_  while his mum turned his back for five minutes?

Oh God, does that mean that Harry is… No, no way. Being here with Adam can’t mean- but it has to.

Harry’s eyes are slowly adjusting to the darkness, a minuscule amount. He can see a figure moving in the dark, which helps a lot. The figure is small and hunched over with its back against the wall. Harry assumes it must be Adam.

“I’m not like them,” Harry finally says, realizing that Adam is waiting for a response to his reasoning for distrust. The sad thing is that it’s valid.

“Sure.”

Harry wants to say something else to Adam, something to comfort him or something to reassure him. He has no idea what though, and always being the  _little_  brother in the family, he’s never had to really work with kids younger than himself. Therefore, he doesn’t feel like he knows the first thing about what to do here.

Before he can even try though, a sliver of light shines into the room, maybe five yards to the right from where he is. After just beginning to get used to the dark, Harry feels like his eyes are burning out of his skull from the sudden light, though after blinking a bit it’s easier to get used to.

The first thing he notices are the two men silhouetted in the light, wearing dark coats with the hoods pulled over their faces. One is large and burly looking, even with what little can be seen, while the other is a scrawny twig. They seem like a weird match, but just  _knowing_  that they helped put him here, along Adam, is frightening enough.

The second thing Harry notices is that his cell with Adam is not the only one. This is like an underground zoo of people, a long row of cells on both his side and the one opposite. Each one has two people at most, dirty and scared and weak looking. It’s the most frightening thing Harry has ever seen in his life.

The third thing is that Adam is a child, really and truly. From what he can tell, the boy has shockingly blonde hair, so much that it’s almost white, and an absurdly thin face. It’s hard to see much more though, because he has his knees drawn up to his chest as he shies away from the light like it’ll hurt him more than the men moving down the aisle.

“Fresh blood,” the burly man breathes, a satisfied smirk just barely visible under his hood. “It’s about time, eh?”

The other man only nods and chuckles in agreement. “I still don’t get the kids though,” he says, suddenly reaching out and smacking the bars of Harry and Adam’s cage, causing them both the jump. “People got weird fetishes, don’t they?”

Harry wants to retch and scream and attack these men, all at once. Is this some sort of prostitution scheme? God, if this wasn’t already sick enough…

“You know they’re not all used for that,” the bigger one answers. “This slave stuff is different.”

Slave stuff? Maybe this is some sort of illegal human trafficking operation, kidnapping people and selling them in secret. Harry has seen that stuff on fictional shows and movies, the prostitution usually including women, but this… this is both, and he never thought anything like that could be really  _out there_.  

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spots Adam shifting back and bringing his legs down, revealing the colorful Superman shirt he’s got over his skinny torso. It’s sadly ironic, and though Harry knows it’s childish, he wishes that Superman were really around to get them out of this, or at least Adam. There’s no way that he deserves it.

“You two gonna gawk all day or get back to work!” The voice is loud and gruff, carrying all the way from somewhere upstairs down through the open door.

“Oh sod off,” the thin man grumbles in response, though not loud enough for the person upstairs to hear.

The burly one laughs in response, clapping him on the back in a friendly manner. “C’mon mate,” he says. “Better get some more before the boss puts you in one.” He gestures towards the cells with a grin.

“Whatever.”

With that, the two men leave, the light dimming as they swing the door closed again.

Harry begins to get frantic inside at the thought of being in the dark again, and looks around to drink in everything else in the room. He almost wishes he didn’t though, seeing as everyone in the cages doesn’t look much better off than Adam. Just before the door clicks shut though, Harry locks eyes with the boy in the cell to his right.

All he manages to spot is a dirty, tired, worn figure in tattered clothes before the darkness engulfs them again. Seeking some sort of comfort though, he feels blindly to the neighboring bars, wanting to speak to someone that’s not a child to make him feel better.

“Hi,” he says hesitantly, not knowing how to start such a conversation in such a situation.

There’s not a response for a long while, and as Harry’s eyes adjust quicker than before, he’s able to see the person’s outline, still facing him head-on.

“I’m Harry,” he tries again. “Who’re you?”

There’s more silence before the person finally speaks, voice rusty and higher than Harry’s own. It still has a masculine tone, though not as strong as one usually is. No, this is much weaker, broken.

“I was Louis Tomlinson.”

➵

Harry ends up trying (and failing) to sleep. After this Louis Tomlinson man saying that that’s who he  _used_  to be, he just can’t stop thinking about it, hard as he may try hours later.

What does that even mean? Does it mean that he’s literally had his name changed? Does it mean the people here have stripped him of his identity completely?

Neither sounds particularly pleasant, and the way Louis talked about it doesn’t help reassure anymore. After he said so, he just kind of got quiet and turned away again, far enough into the darkness that Harry couldn’t see his figure anymore. It’s like he just… vanished.

What  _does_  happen to people here, anyways? What happens once they get sold off as slaves to strangers? Is it better or worse?

With his mind still drowning in all these questions without answers, Harry eventually manages to doze off a little, the pure fear and exhaustion seeming to finally get to him.

 

The first thing Harry hears when he wakes up again is screaming. It’s loud and piercing, making his ears throb and his head pound about ten times worse than before. Blearily, Harry realizes that there’s also a lot of light pouring into the room once more, illuminating the pathway between the cells and many of the people in them.

One of the hooded men is standing across from Harry and Adam’s cell, opening the opposite one in complete silence. The screaming is coming from the girl within, the man tugging on her wrists in an attempt to get her to stand. It’s anything but gentle, but the girl still continues to fight anyways, which seems strange considering she hasn’t said anything else that Harry’s heard.

“Please, d-don’t!”

The man doesn’t answer, but gives up playing nice. He walks completely inside the tall cell, grabbing the girl and hoisting her up over his shoulder, despite her kicking and screaming.

It’s hard to tell with all the flailing about, but she looks like she’s only a few years older than Harry, long brown hair and long legs in a dirty blue dress. “ _Help_ ,” she sobs, pounding relentlessly on the man’s back with her fists, but he only closes the cell up again and continues to ignore her. Just before walking out with her, Harry manages to catch a real glimpse of her, connect eyes from the doorway and see the pure dread in her, the terror. Before he can do anything though – even if he wanted to – the door is slamming and the girl is gone.

The last glimpse Harry catches in a fleeting second is everyone else in the room. People are either frightened and shrinking back in their own cells, or staring blankly at the opposite wall, like they can’t even see what’s going on.

One of the frightened ones is Adam.

One of the numb ones is Louis.

 _I’ve got to get out here_ , Harry thinks suddenly. He doesn’t know if the girl is being taken away to be sold or killed or worse, but he knows that he doesn’t want it to be him next.

Back in darkness, Harry stands, being weary of the ceiling, despite it being a few feet above his head still. He’s already got a bump on his head from smacking into the bars, and really doesn’t want another to add to it.

 _Find the lock_ , Harry tells himself, feeling around the bars for the left side, where he saw the big, metal lock. He didn’t get the chance to see the man open the door of the girl’s cell though, so he has no idea if they require a key or something else. For now, he’s just going to have to feel around.

“It’s pointless, you know.”

Harry stops his shuffling around, freezing in the dark. He recognizes the voice to his right, the voice of Louis Tomlinson – or at least he used to be. His speech still holds that weary, worn out tone to it, but now has a bit of exasperation to it even. Maybe that’s better though. Exasperation is better than no emotion at all, right?

“What?” Harry hisses back in the dark.

There’s a small sigh. “It’s pointless,” Louis repeats. “There’s-“

The end door is suddenly opening again, causing Louis to snap his mouth shut and for Harry to drop to the ground again, shrinking back like everyone else. He doesn’t know if the men would care or not, but he doesn’t want to take his chances or draw attention to himself.

“Dinner time,” a different man is coming down the aisle this time, pushing a trolley full of little plates with scarce portions of slop. He passes however many into each cell with a grunt, matching the number of people inside.

Harry tries not to make a face as he sees the food. Adam instantly dives in, scooping up the tiny fork provided and shoveling the food into his mouth.

Though he is starved too, Harry feels too sick to eat. So tucking the food into a corner for the moment, he simply takes the fork instead, waiting until the man is gone and the darkness is back again, beginning to feel a bit more comforting than the light at this point.

Admittedly, for what he’s going to do, it would be helpful if Harry could have at least a bit of light though. He’ll just have to make do without.

Fumbling around in the dark, Harry reaches one arm through the bars and feels around, taking a couple minutes to locate what feels like the lock. It’s huge, which makes sense for the size of the cell, though it doesn’t reassure Harry anymore that it’ll be easier.

Switching the fork to his other hand through the bars, Harry begins trying to fit it into the lock. A couple of the tines seem like they’d be the perfect fit, but the other two get in the way of that, and when he flips the whole thing around, Harry finds the other half is just too big.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, knowing he’s going to have to figure out some way to try and get half the tines off the fork. Instantly, Harry begins gripping two, trying to at least bend them a bit, away from the others. It’s anything but easy though, since the tines are small and his hands are big. Not to mention that fact that they’re  _tines_ , pointy, metal spikes that keep stabbing into the soft flesh of his palm.

“Shit,” Harry curses then, forgetting and kind of not caring that there’s a seven-year-old kid on the other side of the cell. Now’s really not the time to filter his mouth when he could be sold or killed at any given moment.

Harry can feel that he’s got indents in his hands now, and he knows that pushing any further is going to break skin. The last thing he needs is an injury to get infected in a place as unsanitary as this.

“That’s not going to work.”

The voice is soft again, though enough to get Harry to jump. He already recognizes it as Louis though.

“Why is that?” Harry hisses, thinking Louis has just lost hope and is being stubborn with him.

“Because they’re actually electronic.”

Harry stops and feels the lock again. It feels like it’s still metal and requires a key, so why the hell would it be electronic?

“It’s deceptive, but it’s all controlled outside of the room,” Louis seems to be reading Harry’s mind as he explains, not sounding really upset or glad about the fact. He just seems kind of  _dead_ , like his speech is getting slower as the rest of his body gives up. “The best you’re going to get fiddling with it is a shock of electricity.”

_Electricity._

The word rings in Harry’s mind over and over again, and he’s suddenly very thankful he didn’t get far with the fork. Okay, if  _he_  had an electronically controlled jail cell, how would he operate it?

Harry’s honestly not sure what to do at this point, but he thinks that electricity has to equal wires, right? There has to be something for it to be powered by and connecting to whatever controls they have outside the room.

Harry instantly drops back down on his hands and knees, shuffling around the edge of the cell to try and feel wires or something, or at least outside of the cage. He comes up completely empty though, only managing to get his shoulder caught between the bars in his urgency.

“Seriously?” He hisses to himself, wondering how the hell he got  _in_ if he can’t get out. This is just his luck, of course.

Harry jerks back a bit, only to have to clench his jaw in pain. His shoulder is going to pop out of its socket if he does that any harder, and though that’s never happened to him before, he doesn’t want to find out what it feels like.

“Louis? Adam?” Harry whispers then, wondering if either of the two people he knows in the room can help him out. He doesn’t suspect that Adam knows much, but maybe Louis will have some verbal instructions to at least help out a little.

“What are you doing now?”

It’s Louis who answers, as Adam remains silent. Harry ignores that fact and whispers back with slight embarrassment, “I’m stuck in the bars. Help?”

There’s a moment of silence before Louis speaks again, his tone unchanged. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Um,  _advice?_ ” Harry wonders if Louis is really that thick. Was it really not obvious enough?

“I don’t know. Just hold your breath and hold your arm and  _pull_.”

Harry doesn’t like that idea one bit, considering he’s genuinely worried he’ll yank his arm off. “I don’t want to dislocate it or something.”

There’s no response for many moments then, so Harry sighs, figuring Louis has nothing more to offer. Fat lot of help he was.

Steeling himself, Harry figures he’s going to have to just suck it up and fight through the pain. In a situation like this, pain is probably a given anyways. So putting his free hand on his shoulder, hoping it’ll do anything to hold it together, Harry begins to pull, pain sparking through his whole arm.

 _Keep going, keep going_ , he tells himself, feeling the skin pinch and what feels like bone grinding.  _Just a little more…_

Harry pulls really hard then, not thinking he’ll be able to take much more. Though he generally has found he has a high pain tolerance, Harry’s only felt that through the tattoos littering his skin, not limb-ripping like this. This is a whole different type of pain.

His luck is apparently the worst ever though, because in this process, the end door is opening again and the two men from before are coming in, one unconscious body between them. The figure is completely slumped over, and the hair suggests female, but it’s hard to tell.

Just as the men spot Harry in his terrible position, he comes free so suddenly he falls back onto the floor, banging his head against the concrete. “Oh my God…” He can’t help moaning, trying and failing to clutch his burning shoulder and pounding head at the same time.

“Fuck mate, you actually trying to escape?” The smaller man asks, bending down in front of Harry and Adam’s cell as his partner goes and puts the unconscious body in an empty cell a few yards down. He examines the bars of the cage as if he’s more worried about  _them_  being damaged, bent or broken in any way. “That just won’t do, will it?”

Before Harry can process his words through the pain though, his cell is already unlocking with a loud click. Adam shuffles so his head is in his knees and he’s facing the wall, almost unnoticeable. It doesn’t really mater though, because the man isn’t going for Adam, he’s going for Harry, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and hauling him off the floor.

“Little fuckers like you have got to be taught a lesson, yeah?” The man’s foreign accent is even thicker up close, and Harry can now just make out the scruffy beard on his face under the hood. The man then turns to the rest of the room, shaking Harry a bit and bringing him out into the middle of the hall. “If he makes it back alive, let this be a lesson to the rest of you little fucks.  _No escaping_.”

Before Harry or anyone else can protest – not like they would – he’s being hauled out of the room and down a completely empty hall, into another room that looks like the set of a B-Rated horror film. The room is completely gutted except for a sink half ripped out of the wall, a bucket, and a pile of ratty looking cloths in the corner.

“Wait-“ Harry tries to say when the two men step inside and close the door behind them.

It’s too late though. They’re already coming at him with surprising strength, or maybe Harry is just weak from his time blind and in the dark. It doesn’t matter though, because he’s suddenly being forced on his back on the ground, one of the cloths stuffed over his face, with the water running over it like a steady waterfall.

It doesn’t matter because a heavy weight is on his chest and his arms are being held down while he feels like he’s drowning, unable to breath in or out as his body convulses helplessly out of instinct.

It doesn’t matter because either way, to keep him breathing, one of the men's slimy lips are over his and breathing life into him again. Harry  _dies_  and is brought back, but this is becoming the kind of hell where a miniscule fraction of himself wishes he would just stay dead.             

➵

Harry thinks it’s been at least eight days now, if not more. Not having his phone to check the day, nor his watch for even the time, it’s hard to tell, but it definitely feels like it.

He aches still,  _a lot_. His chest hurts from the waterboarding he’d received days earlier, like his lungs are still unable to move properly and therefore restrict everything else. It makes his whole body ache in this terrible way, and he has no idea how to make it stop.

Thing about this whole situation is, Harry is one of those people who doesn’t give up, either, at least not easily. In primary school on a field day, he didn’t get that blue ribbon on his first try during the meter dash, so he raced about a hundred other kids until he did. In high school, he worked his arse off studying subjects everyone thought he just sucked at, until he could get an A and prove them wrong.  _Now_ , he’s ignoring Louis’ weak voice telling him to just stop trying and listening to the one in his head telling him to  _never stop_.

“You’re wasting your time,” Louis rasps, followed by a, “Stop. You’re just going to get in more trouble,” and then a sigh and shuffling noise of him turning away, finally giving up.

Sure, Harry has no idea what he’s looking for or how any of this will help him get out, but he’ll be damned if he just stops trying. Louis and Adam and all the other God forsaken people in this place may be broken and dead, but he refuses to be one of them, not until he’s dead himself.

Where has he not looked yet? Harry wracks his brain trying to think of where, so much that it makes him physically wince in pain. His head is hurting from dehydration and lack of sleep and all the other shit going on right now, which really helps the least amount possible in escaping.

Floor, Harry thinks. Nothing. Walls. Nothing. Bars. Nothing. Ceiling. N-

Harry stops, wondering for a moment. He’s been assuming that the ceiling is just plain and barren like everything else in here, but could there possibly be something there he missed? A wire or a cord perhaps?

Harry reaches his arm up, wincing a bit as it shifts the bones in his chest, where he’s hurting the most. Ignoring the pain, he only brushes air with his fingertips, even going so far as to move to his toes to try and reach.

Still, nothing.

Of course. Since Harry seems to have terrible luck, it would only be fitting for the cell to be the size of a tollbooth, but the height of an actual room.  _Of-fucking- course._

After all this time in the dark, Harry can fairly say that he feels like a bat, or an owl, or cat even. In the aspect of those animals’ night-vision, he’s pretty up there now, actually able to see faces up close and more than just lighter shadows overlapping the others.

So using this vision that would probably burn his eyes out of his skull in the sun, Harry manages to spot the wires just outside of the bars, dangling limply and faintly. They look rather thick, and Harry’s at the point of thinking where thick equals big and big equals important, so maybe this is actually getting somewhere.

When Harry actually tries to reach through the bars – basically smashing his whole body against them in his effort, causing him to suck in a sharp breath from the pain – he still finds he’s feet too short. Harry curses sharply then, because he’s really not a short guy. Honestly, he’s one of the taller people of his group of friends, and just when he figures it’ll come in handy, of course it doesn’t even matter.

These wires look important too. Maybe pulling them out or apart will ruin the system, unlock the doors and mess it all up. It’s a really weak, pathetic, far-fetched hope, but what’s wrong with trying? In a situation like this, hope is exactly what he needs, otherwise he’ll end up like everyone else, and he knows it.

Harry also knows he only has one resource left, one that he’s been avoiding using since he got here: Adam.

Thing is, he hasn’t wanted to drag the kid into this, especially since the day of his own torture. He doesn’t want to risk Adam getting that, because that’s really just not fair. Still though, since when is life fair and since when does leaving people alone get you anything?

“Adam!” Harry hisses, turning and squinting a bit, quickly finding the young boy’s figure huddled against the wall, like always. “Hey, you with me?”

Harry thinks Adam’s actually not when he doesn’t answer, which is kind of a scary thought. The boy eventually shifts though, murmuring back a quiet, “What?”

“I think I’ve found a way out,” Harry explains. “But I need your help, okay? You see those wires up there?” He points upwards, hoping that Adam can see. “I think pulling them out might get these doors unlocked, but I’m too short. If you get on my shoulders, we can move them down together and pull them out, yeah?”

There’s complete silence before Adam shortly says, “No,” young voice surprisingly firm.

 Harry is a bit surprised, though when he actually thinks about it, he has no reason to be. This is to be expected. If Harry, himself, is afraid of getting Adam hurt, how does Adam actually feel about it? Especially after Harry coming back still choking on the ground with a fire in his lungs.

“Adam, please,” Harry begs, knowing that he can’t spend much more time in here, and he really wants to help save these people. He wants to help save Adam, Louis, every other person in this place, and even himself. He  _really_  just wants to get them all out of here. “We could all get out!”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” is Adam’s only reply, echoing his words from days earlier when Harry first arrived.

Harry blinks. Is this a traumatic thing that Adam’s picked up in his little seven-year-old mind? Saying he’s not supposed to talk to strangers is enough to actually keep them away despite everything that’s happened?

“Adam-“

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers!” Adam repeats shrilly, and Harry actually winces from the volume of it. Okay, this poor kid is obviously traumatized, and this is getting nowhere.

Harry stops for a moment, wondering what to do. This is a serious danger and risk that he’s creating for the both of them, but this is something he can’t do alone. If he wants to get them out, he needs to do it now, while none of the men that took them are around. Adam is the only one available to help, the last resort.

After minutes of more silence, Harry suddenly gets an idea. Quietly, shifting over to where Adam is huddled against the wall, Harry bends down, opening his mouth to speak to him like a parent would to a child.

Before he can though, Adam is shrinking back and whimpering, and Harry  _loathes_  that in the dark, the two orbs glowing out at him are filled with fear. He is  _not_  like the people who took Adam, and he is  _not_  going to hurt him, and he is  _not_  going to stop fighting for him.

Damn it all to hell, if Harry can’t save himself, the least he’s going to do is save Adam.

“I’m not going to hurt you, buddy,” he says softly, trying to reassure the poor kid before speaking. Then – though it sounds out of the blue – he asks, “Do you like Superman, Adam?”

Adam stops everything he’s doing, shaking, chattering, rocking, all of it. The fear changes to confusion, and maybe even a little spark of hope or something reminiscent of it. “Y-yeah?” He says quietly, it coming out more like a question than an answer.

Harry’s heart really fucking breaks for this kid. God, why is he stuck in here? Maybe Harry’s done some things that loaded up on his karma to get him here, but there’s no way Adam could have. “I saw your shirt,” he explains without being asked, so Adam doesn’t think he’s any scarier than he already does. He clearly remembers seeing the Superman T-shirt the boy is wearing, dirty and torn and barely holding to his body, but still there.

Adam only nods fractionally, eyes now wide as saucers.

“You know,” Harry continues. “I know I don’t compare to as great a man as he is, but I’m really trying right now. I honestly don’t know the first thing about being a hero like him, but I think I could come close, don’t you?”

And Harry’s not being pretentious. He’s being honest, one hundred percent, actually. Harry has the hope that he can actually  _save_  these people, save Adam and though he really doesn’t know how, he thinks he can do it. If not the first time, he’ll try and try again, just like he does with everything else. Failure isn’t an option here, not in the end.

“I- I don’t know,” Adam says shakily.

Harry doesn’t blame him, because he doesn’t really know himself, either. “Well Superman is a great hero,” he says softly. “I know. He’s busy now, saving other people, so I’m going to try and help. Help me be a hero, buddy?”

Adam is completely silent, so silent it’s like he stops breathing. They sit in complete silence and Harry’s even holding his own breath, wondering if it was nothing but wasted effort.

The next thing that happens though is so sudden that Harry almost cries out and falls over from the sharp pain, but he  _doesn’t_ , even with Adam suddenly in his arms. He jumps forward and plants himself in Harry’s chest, squeezing him as tightly as his scrawny arms can, pressing up against his internal bruises.

The thing is though, Harry doesn’t even care. The human, innocent touch of such a child as Adam washes away all the pain after the initial sting, leaving him feeling warm and happy and  _loved_. So Harry does all he can not to crush the poor boy in his arms from how tightly he wants to squeeze him back, instead tucking his head protectively over the boy’s, holding him close.

“Okay,” Adam’s voice sounds really shaky, and Harry thinks he just might be crying. It only adds another crack to Harry’s heart, but he knows he has to hang in there, if not for anything now, for  _Adam_. “You’re strong, and strong people are heroes. I’ll help.”

And somehow, Harry knows Adam isn’t talking about his physical strength alone.

“Thank you,” Harry says, finally managing to tear the two of them apart, though he really does want to continue coddling and loving him when no one else will. Harry then crouches down, knees on the concrete to make himself shorter. “Hop on, yeah? Mind your head though.”

He knows that they don’t have much time, and Adam seems to as well, so he scrambles onto Harry’s back and then shoulders, wrapping his legs securely below Harry’s chin. Harry tries not to cringe at the pressure of his weight – though he’s really such a stick, it’s not much – only fighting to stand up on wobbly knees and move over to the bars.

As he does, he faintly sees another pair of eyes watching from the dark. He ignores them.

“Can you reach them, Adam?” Harry’s suddenly whispering as he feels Adam shifting on his shoulders, pushing himself up a bit higher. He’s not sure why he’s whispering, maybe it has to do with the fact that they’re doing such a dastardly act that will surely get them beaten or tortured or killed if caught, but whispering suddenly seems more than appropriate.

“Nearly,” Adam responds just as quietly, and there’s a small sound of frustration and endless reaching and Harry’s internal injuries really blaring protests until he says something else. “Got it!”

Harry is relieved, and once Adam pulls and gets them stretched as far as they can go, Harry is just able to grab on with his fingertips. He assures Adam that he has them before letting the kid down from his shoulders, back to the ground where he just looks up with a type of wonderment only kids seem to purely manage.

“Watch out, buddy,” Harry warns, moving back and preparing to pull as hard as he can. “If these come loose, I don’t want to fall back on you.”

Adam gets the message and moves, watching while Harry takes a deep breath. Then he’s watching him pull, tightening his grip on the tubes and tugging with increasing violence. “Hell,” there’s a small curse before Harry resumes his pulling, even daring to lift his feet from the floor and just  _hang_. Sadly, he’s not heavy enough to pull them with his weight alone.

“No, no, no,” he whispers, his determination and stubborn nature coming out again. This is not going to be something for him to fail at. He doesn’t fail and he’s not going to start now.

So with those thoughts in his head, Harry lets out a low grunt, steeling himself as he rips backwards with all the possible strength in his body, channeling all the adrenaline and all the rage at being trapped and all the fear of what could happen to both himself and Adam if it doesn’t work. The difference between this time and all the others though, is that it actually works, the wires falling backwards with his body.

Harry’s silent for a long moment when he regains his balance, just staring at the things in his hands now, thicker than his wrist almost. The door doesn’t do anything, not move, not creak, not even fucking shift.

“ _No_ ,” Harry grits out the words with his teeth clenched. He did not just go through all that effort with Adam to  _fail_ , there is no way. He is going to get this door open if it kills him, and these wires can’t just be  _nothing_.

It actually isn’t nothing though.

Through the silence – as Harry’s slowly building up to releasing the scream caught in his throat – the door slides open on their cell. It’s not creaky and not rusty and not anything, except silent. It’s open though, it’s fucking  _open_  and that’s enough.

“Hell,” Harry breathes, though it’s suddenly not hell. It’s like heaven opening up to him, though he hopes that won’t actually become a reality for a while because dying really doesn’t sound good at all, not after all this.

Ever since the door was magically opened, every eye in the room is now on them, because they’re all realizing that they’ve done the impossible. There’s nothing else though, which is the sad part. No begging for any fellow release, no excited whispers, no  _nothing_. These people are really  _that_  broken, and Harry won’t stand for it. Not after they’re all out.

“Harry, don’t,” Louis’ voice is suddenly loud in the dark when Harry puts a foot outside the door.

Harry knows that Louis is terrified along with everyone else, terrified and weak and distrustful. He gets that, because they really do have a right to be, but it’s okay. If he plays things right from now on, he can get them all out.

“C’mon Adam,” Harry ignores Louis still, grabbing Adam’s little hand and pulling him out of the cell with him. “We need to move, now.”

Adam says nothing, but obeys, and then Louis is actually  _begging_. “Harry, please,” he’s saying, tone weak but desperate. “Don’t, i-it’s not safe. You’ll get in trouble, you’ll get us all in trouble…”

Another crack to his heart. Harry has never heard a grown man so full of terror before, and that in itself is enough to keep him moving. “I promise I’ll be back for you,” he says, because Louis is just  _scared_. “I  _promise_.”

The thing is, Harry means it. He can’t stop now to unlock everyone, but he does promise to be back. Not in weeks or years, but very, very soon. He’s not about to let the rest of them rot in the dark while he and Adam escape. He’ll figure something out, and then he’ll be back, because if Harry is anything, it’s reliable.

Ignoring the rest of Louis’ protests, Harry shuffles Adam towards the door, eyes darting madly in the dark. He may be dressing up as a hero in the moment, but that definitely doesn’t mean he’s not scared shitless. He really is, and that’s because he knows they’re not home free yet.

“This has to be a way out,” he begins saying, reaching for the doorknob, but then light is suddenly  _everywhere._

Harry and Adam look at each other and can only watch as their pupils go from fully blown circles to pinpoint pricks. They both even flinch like they’re being electrocuted, the sudden light causing them to go completely blind for more than a few seconds.

Harry didn’t even know the lights in the room actually  _worked_ , but apparently they do, and they’re bad news. He knows they need to get out, and right away. “This way!” He’s still blind with the little boy beside him, realizing the door is locked and sprinting in the other direction, ignoring the lumps in the cells trying to hide from the brightness.

Just as Harry’s vision is beginning to return, Adam’s hand is ripped from his own and two more hands are wrapping around his shoulders, grip tight and painful. Letting out a startled cry, Harry is suddenly slammed against the nearest cell, pinned by a hooded man with a sneer on his face. “Going somewhere?” He asks.

Harry feels his eyes watering, but he ignores the question and looks for Adam, who’s currently being held in the grip of another hooded man, though there’s something else: a gun to his temple.

“No,” Harry croaks, eyes widening in total terror and almost disbelief, though really, he should expect this from such monsters. This wasn’t the plan though. If he fails this time around, he’s supposed to get another shot, get a beating at most and come back to try again later. This isn’t  _supposed_  to happen. “Please, leave him alone.”

“Really haven’t learned your lesson yet, eh?” The man with the gun says, shaking his head in a way that would be solemn, if it isn’t for the smirk just under the hood.

Harry’s mind is imploding on itself. He doesn’t know what to do or how to get out of this, so he says the only thing he can think. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, going for begging and forgiveness,  _anything_  to save Adam. “Please! It’s all my fault, he had nothing to do with it!”

“You really think that the door would just _open- ”_

“It’s all me, I’ll do whatever you want!”

“ – And then you’d get out – “

“Listen to me! I’m sorry! Don’t hurt him, he’s just a kid!”

“ – And run for help?”

Harry wants to scream because they’re not _listening_. They don’t care and they’re completely ignoring what he’s trying to say. It’s not Adam, it’s not Adam, it’s  _not._

Both men stop, and Harry actually feels his eyes beginning to water with tears now, tears from pure fright and pain at yet another crack in his heart, seeing that torturously terrified look on Adam’s face that hurts more than any physical torture.

“You really can’t take a hint, can you?” The guy holding Harry against the bars says, though Harry can’t even feel the pain through the fear. He shakes him once, and still nothing. “Maybe this punishment will be one that you’ll never forget. One that will get you to wake the fuck up.”

Harry’s eyes blow to the sizes of softballs because he’s already awake, and this is the unfortunate reality he has to face because of it. “No, please-“ He cuts himself off though, because he’s suddenly screaming himself hoarse, fighting with all he physically can manage through the pain of his heart finally  _shattering,_ shredding the rest of his body in the process and puncturing every little bubble of happiness he’s ever had.

“No!” He’s shrieking at the little body dropping to the ground, blood leaking out of a hole in the side of its head. “No, no, no, you  _can’t!_ You fucking can’t, please– “ He’s saying it all through tears though, pouring freely down his face, and maybe his head is messing with him, but they’re physically stinging, burning his face like liquid fire and only making his cries louder.

Harry dives for Adam’s body, the hooded men not bothering to stop him. He picks the little bundle of skin and bones up on his knees, dirty cloths and messy hair, grasping his still warm skin like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth anymore.

“Adam,  _please_ ,” he begs, even vainly attempting to put his hand over the bullet wound, staunch the blood as if it isn’t already too late to save him. “I’m supposed to help be a hero, remember?” He sobs down at those lifeless little eyes staring up at him, ignoring the warm gush of the blood through the cracks between his fingers. “I’m supposed to be like Superman, save everyone, right? I’m supposed to save  _you_ , damn it…”

Suddenly, Harry wishes he has the cloth over his face again and the water pouring over it, because  _that_ drowning is suddenly a lot less painful than  _this_. Right now, he feels like he’s drowning at rock bottom, drowning in his grief and Adam’s blood, and  _his_  failure. He can’t physically breath anymore, because this is just  _too much_.

“When you calm down I’ll take you nice and easy back to your cell now,” the man that was holding him is saying, not phased in the slightest. “Unless you want another punishment.”

Part of Harry wants to just take the waterboarding, because he  _deserves it_. He ought to drown himself a million times over for failing Adam like this, having him leave the world with only seven years to his name in a puddle of his own blood in an unknown cellar in the middle of God knows where. It seems like a harsh punishment, but Harry finds it fitting, that type of punishment for this type of crime.

He deserves it, but he’s so tired that he only slumps over, sobbing and screaming still, but not fighting.

 

Louis watches this whole altercation from inside his own cell, being one of the few remaining observers to not have turned away. Don’t get him wrong, he feels so dead and broken that he really shouldn’t want to see or even care anymore, but for some reason unknown to him, he does.

A part of him suddenly is aching for both the child and the man, dead and in the process of being. Absolutely none of this is fair, and though he learned long ago that life has no conscience, Louis can’t help closing his eyes and just wishing that Harry would  _stop screaming_.

Louis hears the neighboring cell door slide open to his left, Harry and Adam’s – or at least, it was. He doesn’t open his eyes though, not until it closes again, because he knows that the men are probably there, dragging Harry back all over again. And the hard truth is that Louis’ just not strong enough to face them, and doubts he ever will be.

Louis turns to see that Harry actually isn’t in his cell again, but something else is. Harry is being dragged out (still howling) by the men, probably to face yet another cruel torture, so what is this?

No, as the overhead lights click off and as the remaining brightness fades with the close of the door, Louis is able to make out two dead eyes and half of a faded Superman logo, staring straight at him.

➵

Hope isn’t even much of a debate anymore, or at most, a conversation. Harry isn’t entirely lost, but he’s definitely beginning to lose that little light of defiance in his being, that little voice pushing him dulling.

An hour or so ago, Adam died – no, was murdered. It wasn’t just the men who pulled the trigger either, but Harry himself. He’s the one who tried to get him involved in the escape, tried to get him out of his cell, tried to save him... and failed. Harry tried to save Adam and he failed, and now the consequence is his death.

An hour ago, Harry was punished/tortured again, put back in that God forsaken room and held down with the cloth and water over his face. Though it was obviously natural reaction to struggle and scream and  _try_ , he wasn’t inside. Inside, he just took it because he deserved it and didn’t have the strength anymore, not in the same way.

Harry most certainly doesn’t want to die, but he’s beginning to not want to live anymore either.

 

Harry thinks it’s a week or so later – though it’s almost impossible to really tell – when the men return again, return with something besides the usual glare and slop on a plate.

“Ah, auction day,” one breathes, inhaling deeply like the scent of death and decay is actually pleasant. “Favorite day of the week.”

Harry knows exactly what they’re talking about too. “Auction day” is the day that they select a handful of the prisoners, take them away and – well, auction them. It’s human trafficking, though here Harry’s not sure what that entitles. He doesn’t know if it means sex or labor or  _what_ , but either way, it doesn’t sound appealing in the slightest.

As the men go about the usual process, pulling people from their cells – some screaming, some not – he’s suddenly alert when one begins opening his own door. “What are you doing?” He questions instantly, though he already knows.

“You’re up today, pretty boy,” the man only responds gruffly, and while Harry’s being roughly dragged from his cell by the fabric of his thin shirt, he catches a glimmer of other movement beside him: they’re taking Louis too.

Their eyes lock together for a second, but it’s not long enough to really take anything in on one another’s face. All that can be read is that they both know this is it, the day that they either thank the Lord they’re released, or curse him for ever getting them caged in the first place.

The next thing Harry’s greeted by is dusty light, created by the suffocating fabric of what appears to be a dark pillowcase over his head. The thickness of the material should be more painful, the way it restricts breathable air for him. Harry’s beginning to be accustomed to not breathing though, drowning, suffocating, it doesn’t even matter anymore. Either way, he seems to be slowly dying.

Harry’s hands are bound behind him as well, and the next thing he feels is a hard metal surface and the “oof” sound of the breath being knocked out of him. Another minute later and he can tell they’re moving, so he must be in a vehicle of some sort. Harry doesn’t really have the heart to attempt to count the endless amount of turns and bumps they hit in the road. He just has trouble finding that part of him that cares anymore.

By the time the vehicle stops again, they’re apparently already inside another place, a warehouse of some sort. Harry can tell by the way the men’s voices echo as they chatter, acting as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to be shoving  _people_  off to be sold like animals.

“Welcome to the ring,” one of them say, and the next thing he knows, Harry’s mask to the world is being pulled off of him, revealing grimy brick walls and dusty air.

“Where are we?” He asks throatily, voice raw from either little use or screaming it hoarse. He seems to be the only one daring enough to ask too, considering the rest of the prisoners – including Louis – just look down and shuffle along like submissive little pets.

The only response Harry gets though is, “Shut up.”

There appear to be about five or six of them in all (the prisoners), a mixture of young boys and girls. There’s an equal amount of hooded men though, leading them further down the ancient looking tunnel and around countless twists and turns until a light appears up ahead.

Harry tries not to find it kind of ironic: the light at the end of the tunnel. That’s supposed to be heaven, isn’t it? Though he supposes it only really applies to dead people, he thinks that he should be close enough to count, or at least the others should be.

It’s the farthest thing from heaven though. When they walk into that light, they’re spit out of the tunnel into a large circle, built almost like a boxing ring or maybe even a Roman circus. There are men lining the sides though, forming a crescent moon shape in front of a grungy stage that looks like it could fall apart with a feather’s weight.

They’re all led to the side of that stage though, lined up like school children (plus the bindings). Harry ends up close to the back, only saved from being last by Louis, who’s standing stock still behind him.

It’s a tense moment for them all as they watch the first person (a girl that can’t be more than twenty) be led up and held in the middle of the stage. A man in a surprisingly sharp suit comes over then, beginning to yell things and point at the girl, listing random facts – that may or may not be true – before beginning to throw out numbers, bidding her like an old antique item.

The amount is surprisingly too, a despicable amount in the low thousands. Human lives should be completely priceless, not to mention unattainable, yet pounds are really being counted here for value?

It literally makes Harry sick to his stomach, and he tries to just close his eyes and will it all away, at least mentally. He knows his own turn is coming soon, and the thought of being sold to a stranger for  _any_  amount of money is horrifying.

“Promise this one’s loads better than he looks,” a voice says, and Harry is suddenly being shoved forward and nearly dragged up the steps to the stage.

He only closed his eyes for a minute though, or so he thought. It isn’t supposed to be his turn yet, he isn’t ready, isn’t prepared to endure it. It’s already here though, and there’s absolutely nothing for him to do except sit back and look desirable, isn’t there?

“Bit feisty at first,” the auctioneer says, gesturing wildly at Harry like his filthy clothes and sunken face actually have positive qualities. “But he was broken soon enough. No physical problems – “ Except for the waterboarding damage to my lungs, Harry thinks bitterly. “ – So he’s really worth tons more than he looks…”

Harry forces himself to tune out the rest then, not wanting to hear the other lies this man is spilling to line his pockets. It’s only a matter of time before the numbers are being called, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred, a thousand… It’s never ending, and Harry doesn’t want to hear it, because no amount of money will change the damage that’s been done to his life.

“Sold!”

Harry finally looks out at the bidders when he hears that dreaded word, looking to where the auctioneer is pointing to see a man with a yellow card in the air, displaying the number ’28’ in bold numbers. He’s got sharp features; bony and middle aged, but a very cool and calculating gaze. Harry’s not sure what he wants him for, but he’s already got the feeling that it can’t be good.

One of the hooded men is at his back again then, ready to pull him off the opposite side and take him through the opposite tunnel, one of which Harry doesn’t know what stands at the other end. Just as he begins to take that first step in the wrong direction though, another voice pipes up, one that doesn’t belong.

“Take me instead!”

Everyone freezes, and Harry takes the moment to just take it in. The voice is frantic almost, higher and rough, like his own. It’s familiar in a completely unfamiliar way, one that he knows he’s spent so much time with in the dark, one that always tries to speak only to give up a second later.

It’s Louis.

Harry is allowed to turn, seeing Louis already up on the other side of the stage, flanked by two of the hooded men who stop him from going any further. Though it looks as if his knees are almost knocking together from their trembling, Harry can see the clear set of his jaw, the furrow in his brow as he stares defiantly out at the audience. “Take me instead,” he repeats, slower this time, strangely calmer.

It hits Harry like a tidal wave. Louis is volunteering for  _him_ , actually offering to take his place in this. Part of Harry wonders if he should be envious of the fact, but the way Louis’ expression is set, it’s obvious that he doesn’t believe enslavement to this man is better than the dark.

“Listen  _slave_ ,” the auctioneer is suddenly spitting, looking furiously at Louis when he turns his back to the crowd he’s selling to. From this angle it can be seem that he’s got a round, meaty face that’s slowly darkening in shades of red, irritation getting the best of him. “You’ll get your turn, so why don’t you just shut your filthy trap and let – “

“I like his nerve,” another voice suddenly cuts off the auctioneer, nearly as deep as Harry’s own, though with a smoother form to it. “I’ll take him.”

If people hadn’t already frozen before, they sure do then. The auctioneer’s jaw literally drops along with half the crowd’s and Harry’s own. None of them really seem to have expected such a thing, especially considering how much weaker Louis looks than Harry, dirtier and even more ragged.

Sure, Harry is a bit rugged and grungy, but Louis is all that and so much more. His dark trousers aren’t even that anymore, rumpled and torn and just barely hanging onto him, along with his t-shirt. His face is obviously hallowed and sunken, his posture slanted and broken despite his rebellious act. It’s obvious that he’s worse off, yet the man is still taking him.

“ _With_  the curly one?” The auctioneer is the first to finally speak, trying to recompose himself, tugging on the edges of his jacket.

Harry disregards the fact that he doesn’t even have a name here, the only identifier being the curly, matted rags that used to be his hair. No, he’s too focused on this man’s answer, because if he takes them both, then maybe they’ll have a chance. Maybe the fight won’t be over yet.

So of course, Harry’s stomach drops at a hundred miles an hour when the man scoffs at that, like it’s the most ridiculous proposition the world has ever heard of. “Of course not,” he says. “Just the little one then. Seems more interesting anyways.”

There’s a terribly long silence in the room then, one that threatens to suffocate Harry all over again. This is different than all the other times though, a silence that is charged with electricity, crackling through every being in varying ways.

For Harry, this electricity is like a fire just being lit. It’s smoking and sizzling deep within him, growing by the second as he waits with baited breath for the verdict. The thing is though; Harry’s not even sure what he wants it to be. Does he want to be taken instead of Louis? Does he want them both taken? Does he want them both back in the dark?

After a moment of the auctioneer mumbling to himself (through with a closer glance it’s seen as a ear device, like a Bluetooth) he seems to get permission for the deal from an unknown source. So without another moment’s hesitation, he turns cheery again and spins to the audience, calling a loud, “Sold!”

It’s obviously not what Harry wants though, because his already shattered heart instantly sinks even lower, down into the acid of his stomach and burning away. “No,” he whispers softly, just as everyone begins to resume as “normal”, a man moving to haul Louis away and another to take Harry  _back_.

Harry’s not sure, but that’s the moment that something apparently snaps in him, more mental than anything else. Something in him is sparked by that fire and that burning, something that can’t let this just  _happen_.

“Louis!” Harry springs forward, just before the hooded man can grab him. Louis looks shocked at this, but maybe something sparks inside him too, because he’s suddenly trying to go for Harry as well.

Louis isn’t as lucky as Harry in the fact that the man grabs him before he can get very far. Harry makes up for the distance though, darting across the stage like a rocket, not wasting the second he has before he’s taken again.

“Harry!”

The strange thing for Harry is that he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. If he reaches Louis, then what? There’s no way they can escape in these positions still, no way they can change their minds. There’s really nothing they can do at all, yet Harry is feeling desperate to give it his all, fight for the one so suddenly trying to save him when he couldn’t himself.

“C’mere, you fucking – “ Harry feels the man’s arms wrap around his waist, attempting to tug him back. Instead of giving in this time though, Harry pushes his legs out backwards against the man’s thighs. The man grunts and is forced back a bit, almost falling down but still managing to keep his grip.

“Just a minor setback with the feisty ones,” he vaguely hears the auctioneer say, followed by the bidders laughing, as if it’s a truly funny joke.

Louis suddenly reaches out his hand though, stretching despite the man pulling at him. “Harry,” he says again, softer as their eyes meet.

The moment they do, it’s like everything goes in slow motion. Harry feels like he’s floating – and it’s not because he’s basically standing  _on_  another person – as he reaches out as well, just barely grasping fingers with Louis.

For the first time he’s able to see Louis’ eyes,  _really_  see them. They’re not that startlingly blue color of the sky or even the deep one of the ocean. They’re like a cloudy day, graying with even a hint of green in them. They’re completely silent and speak a thousand words at the same time; a paradox that Harry never realized could even exist in a person. Harry feels like he can hear his own heartbeat in his chest, hear  _Louis’_  even, feel his breath in his ear and every nerve in his hand making contact with Louis’ own.

Then suddenly, everything is going from slow motion to fast forward, jolting him as his hand slips from Louis’ and he tumbles to the ground, spectacularly hitting his face on the wooden platforms of the stage. “Louis!” He manages to gasp out, ignoring the blood swirling in his mouth.

“Get up!” A voice barks at him, and with Harry’s lungs already damaged from waterboarding torture, he’s wheezing for breath, unable to even look up in response. The man obviously gets fed up with this, choosing to pull him up by his shirt collar and get him on his feet again, in the least helpful way possible.

When he regains his breath, Harry manages to see Louis being literally dragged through the other tunnel, already grimy clothes scraping across the ground with half of his body. He and Harry look at each other one last time before Louis is swallowed by the foreign darkness, sending each other one fleeting glance with one simple meaning:  _I’m sorry._

➵

The darkness goes two ways for Harry now: one way being like a thick blanket of comfort, hiding him from reality and allowing him to pretend that he didn’t lose the last strand of hope in his being. The second way is more like the suffocating pillowcase all over again, the bullet of the gun, and the drowning of the wet cloth, swallowing him whole and devouring him from every angle,  _reminding_  him of all he’s failed at.

First Adam, now Louis. They’re both lost to Harry, dead and gone without so much as the faintest glimmer to reunite them again. There’s nothing left for Harry to fail at or be a hero about. The numbers in the cells are actually beginning to dwindle down, less new people being brought in and more old people being taken out.

Harry hasn’t been paid any attention to since the auction that took Louis from him, which could be seen as a relief. Harry’s honestly not sure though, because part of him feels that the attention gave him more motivation to fight. Maybe that’s just his imagination working its ugly ways, but there’s nothing left to fight for, nothing and no one.

 

Time is now abstract, but not of the essence. Any and all meaning it once held has been destroyed, leaving Harry unsure of whether weeks have passed or months. Time seems never ending now, no one to talk to, nothing to do, no motivation for either even if they were options.

However long it’s been though, this night or day is no different than the others. Harry lies on the hard floor of his cell, eyes closed to a different type of darkness, not sleeping and not even really resting either. He simply is there, sandwiched between two thin blankets and left to wonder.

“Absolutely pouring out,” he hears one of the hooded men say, pulling another captive for auctioning, one that’s apparently been trapped for so long he doesn’t even move.

Harry vaguely wonders what rain feels like. He knows that he’s felt it before and that it’s water falling from the sky, but he can’t remember the feeling itself well enough. He can’t remember it really, but he remembers loving it.

He also remembers that he’ll probably never feel it again.

Then, the hooded men begin dragging out another unfortunate soul, another male that doesn’t even bother getting up or fighting, just like the first. He just flops over and lets them drag him, and Harry doesn’t really blame him. He, himself, hardly bothers to look.

 

Time spent in the dark has become normalcy, but gunshots have definitely not.

The harsh bangs are Harry’s only motivation to sit up again, to creep over to the metal bars and attempt to peer through the darkness, attempt to figure out what’s happening.

“Fuck you!” A gruff voice shouts as more gunshots are heard, closer this time.

Harry’s crippled remains of a heart actually begin beating again, racing even. He doesn’t know if they’re being attacked or what, but he does know that this is dangerous. Him being here is dangerous, and if he could, he’d be running.

Despite everything else, wanting to die for so long now and wanting to continue grieving the losses of the two boys that were his only bits of hope in the dark, Harry suddenly want  _out_. As easy as it is to say that we’re broken, to say that we’re just dead inside, fear can spark the natural instinct of survival again, and Harry’s had enough fear to last him a lifetime, enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if there are carvings of it on his very soul.

“Stop, now!” A different voice and more gunshots.

Harry barely has time to blink before the door is being opened at the end of the hall and light is flooding through, then a group of the hooded men running in as the overhead lights explode in brightness.

Harry’s so used to the dark he’s gone blind, white filling his vision. It’s slowly beginning to fade around the edges, but not enough for him to properly see, not enough for him to see his cell door slide open and one of the men aim a gun at his head.

“Shoot me and he dies!”

Harry’s vision is half way returned now, enough for him to see the body coming at him and then feel the hands ripping him from his spot on the floor. He’s pulled out of his cage – which has become his safety, his solace – and forced to his knees, still kept upright by a harsh hand pulling on his hair.

“Drop the boy, now!”

Harry manages to get his vision completely clear now, save for a few flashing spots when he blinks. He’s surprised at what he finds too, because now standing in front of him are five people in heavy amour, what appear to be bulletproof vests, helmets, and more guards around their arms and legs. As he drinks this all in, there are more coming through too, looking like a SWAT team more than a police force.

Harry’s throat goes even drier than before, because authorities are actually  _here_. Someone outside of this whole dirty ring is here and fighting, fighting for all the people like himself that have given up. They’re actually here and Harry can’t help having his fear intensify, because dying at this point really would be the  _ultimate_  failure, and despite thinking he’s dead, Harry’s stubborn nature is still in there.

“We’ll kill all of them,” a voice snarls above Harry, and from this angle, he can actually see the face under the hood. He can see the scarred features and ugly mouth, and nervous twitch. For the first time since he’s been in this place, he can  _see_.

“We know all about your trafficking ring, your gang!” One of the police says, a female. “We’ve been tracking you lot for months now, there’s no point in running anymore, so just let the boy go and we’ll do this the easy way.”

The man above Harry lets out a laugh that’s like a wild hyena, loud with just enough of a hint of crazy. “The easy way,” he spits. “Life has no easy way.”

Harry can’t help silently agreeing with his captor, for life is unforgiving and cruel and  _anything but_  easy. Over these past few… well, however long he’s been here, he’s learned that well.

There’s a very tense silence after that, showing that the police actually don’t know how to retaliate to that. There are still guns everywhere though, coming from both sides with one aimed right at Harry’s helpless head.

Harry feels hyperaware all of a sudden in the silence, almost like he did when he saw Louis for the last time. This isn’t quite the same, but it’s got the same affects where he can really  _see_.

He can see the police in front of him, firm and determined, though anxious all the same. He can sense their nervousness of the whole situation, their worry that even their thick amour won’t be enough to protect them from men like this. Not all of them have this, but Harry can almost see in their eyes the fear that they won’t be able to  _save him,_  save Harry himself from death.

Harry doesn’t know if he believes they will either.

On the other side, Harry can hear the ragged breathing of the hooded men behind him, hear them shift restlessly and how their fingers tremble against their triggers. Like an animal almost, he can smell their fear and hear their thoughts, hear how for once, they’re not sure they’re going to get out of this one alive, or at least not in chains.

Harry also hears one of the hooded men off to the side hiss out an, “Oh, fuck it,” and step forward, shooting at his enemy without warning. Harry watches the policeman go down on the other side, feel the split of skin as the bullet makes contact with the space around his eyes.

That’s when the hyperawareness wares off though, because everything is suddenly out of control. The police instantly retaliate, now having motive to shoot the enemy. Harry prepares himself to feel a bullet in his own head, but instead, he feels a heavy weight drop behind him, and when he turns, he sees the bleeding body of the very man that threatened to shoot him dead.

“Out of the way!”

Harry somehow knows that the policeman is speaking to him, and just out of pure instinct, he dives to the side, out of reach while the hooded men take the long fall down in a shower of metal and blood.

There’s a pain in Harry’s chest when he hits the floor again, like his very lungs have been ripped from him. It’s like being waterboarded without the water, drowning with the lack of anything else. When he puts a hand to his chest, there’s no blood or wound at all, but Harry’s sure he can feel his heart beating harder than ever before, threatening to burst from his chest.

“Help,” he croaks, but the police are too caught up in the shooting, too caught up trying to avoid bullets and shoot them at the same time. “Someone, please.” He goes to say something else, even weakly raise a hand to get someone’s attention, but it’s too late by then. Harry’s already falling, just like the men shot, falling into the dark with nothing to grasp onto, no one to save him.

 

_“Clear!”_

Harry’s eyes shoot open to find an unbelievable shock jolting through his body, causing his back to arch and his mouth to fall open with alarm.

“He’s back,” a deep voice says while a hand gently touches Harry’s forehead, stroking his mangy hair back.

“It’s okay,” this second voice is female, sweet and gentle and almost motherly, in a way Harry hasn’t heard in so long he could cry. “I promise, you’re safe here.”

Harry wonders where he’s back from and why he’s safe. He hopes that it’s not the dark again, not the cells and this is just his new cellmate attempting to be comforting. When he looks up though, he is able to see the darkness past a hulking piece of metal partially blocking his view. He worries that this really is the dark again, but he then realizes he can actually see in it, that there are little pulsating lights, like… like stars.

“Where am I?” Harry weakly lifts his head to see the hulking piece of metal is the back door of an ambulance, paint brightly colored even at night. He is able to make out uniformed people all around him, bustling with equipment and notepads and… body bags.

“I told you, you’re safe.”

Harry is gently forced back down and is able to see a very attractive face when he tilts his head back. Tan skin and pretty brown eyes, a slight accent to voice that somehow, helps him be a little more assured.

“I’m Bianca,” the woman says, smiling gently as she continues to stroke his hair back, seeming to not even care about the disgusting state it’s in. “You’re out sir, you’re free again.”

The stars, the paramedics, the cars and flashing lights… Harry is ignoring them because he’s having trouble really believing it, really believing that he’s  _out_. Still though, when he looks again, the lights in the darkness are really there, twinkling as if in silent celebration.

Before he can ask more questions though, another woman comes over, one of the heavily armored police. Harry vaguely wonders how they can walk around with all that, but doesn’t ask.

“Sir,” the policewoman says gently, moving to hover by his side. “I know you’ve already been through so much, but can I ask you a few questions?”

Harry tries to nod, but his vision keeps moving in and out of focus, making it hard to really do anything. “O- okay,” he finally manages.

“First… what is your name?”

Harry has to think for a moment, just because he had no name in the dark. He was just another slave to be sold, another faceless, missing person no one was able to find. “I- I’m Harry,” he finally says after a moment, able to see it clearly now. He can see all the school papers he wrote that name on, the birthday cards with that name on the envelope, and that name coming from all the lips of the people he loved, all the people he’d lost. “Harry Styles.”

The woman stops for a long moment, seeming to consider that. Her expression remains relatively firm, but her eyes soften just the tiniest bit, almost remorsefully. “I see, Harry,” she says gently. “How are you feeling?”

Harry feels a bit like he was run over by a cement truck and then thrown off a building, but he doesn’t say so. Instead, he just manages a weak, “Fine.”

The policewoman looks ready to leave, but before she can Harry speaks up again, realizing he really  _needs_  to know what that look on her face is about. “S- so what if I’m Harry Styles? Are people looking for me?”

She smiles a bit, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Quite a few, yes,” she answers. “A few days ago though, a man came to the London station and claimed to be escaped from this whole ring. People have been looking for you for longer than that, but he said you were there with him.”

Harry looks thoroughly confused. “Who?” He asks, wondering who the hell could have managed to escape from that prison without being broken apart and torn to shreds.

The woman pauses, almost like she shouldn’t be giving away the information. Finally, she speaks though, leaning forward a bit and slowly saying, “Does the name Louis Tomlinson ring any bells to you?”

➵

After he passes out on that rickety gurney, it takes nearly four days for Harry to wake up again. When he does, he finds himself dazed and confused in a room of crème colored walls and white everything else. When he tries to move his limbs – that feel as heavy as lead – he finds they’re connected to various wires and cables, needles sticking painlessly into his skin and clips on his fingertips.

Even in his state though, Harry can make sense of the fact that he’s no longer in the dark, not even the night. It’s daytime, based on the sunlight streaming through the window, and he’s in a hospital, or a place closely resembling one. Even so, Harry’s already reaching for the wires, ready to pull them from his skin and figure out  _what’s going on_. He’s spent so much time in the dark, figuratively and literally, and he’s absolutely sick of it. He needs to know exactly where he is, why, what they’ve done to him, and everything in between.

Before he can really pull though, an all too familiar face appears in the doorway, tired features and rumpled hair. For once, she doesn’t look like the beauty queen she usually is, but more like a person on a downward spiral, like someone who’s lost a lot… like someone who’s lost their brother even.

It’s a difficult thing to believe, considering Harry hasn’t seen her for even longer than he’d been kidnapped. It was ages ago since they last talked, since she moved away, and forgive him, but it’s hard to really  _grasp_  that she’s there. “Gemma,” Harry croaks to his sister, and the moment he does she drops the cup of cheap coffee she’s holding, ignoring the hazard she’s just made on the floor. Before Harry can even blink, his big sister is in his arms, crushing him almost with the pressure of her body and the strength of her grip, yet he doesn’t mind.

“You’re awake,” she breathes, finally pulling back and stroking a hand over his cheek, light and gentle. Only then does Harry notice that she’s crying, which is frightening in itself because Gemma  _never_  cries. In that aspect, her and Harry have always been opposites, and they still are apparently, just with the roles reversed. Harry can’t bring himself to shed a single tear. “Oh my God Harry, I- I thought you were dead.”

Harry blinks for a minute, drinking it all in. “Not just yet,” he finally says, trying to ignore how goddamn scrawny his arms feel all of a sudden. However long he was stuck in the dark, malnutrition certainly got the best of him, leaving him with thin, veiny twigs for limbs.

“I have to get Mum and tell her you’re awake,” Gemma suddenly gasps, tired eyes blowing wide all of a sudden, completely alert. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

As she dashes out again, narrowly missing the coffee spill, Harry smiles the faintest bit. Leave it to his sister to think that in this state he’d be able to go anywhere at all, or would even want to.

Harry does nothing but finger the sheets bundled around him, despite the heat. It’s nice to feel something besides that stupid, scratchy wool blanket, something besides the cold concrete and metal bars. Pondering, Harry wonders if it’s a good thing that he remembers or not, vividly so, in fact. He partly feels that it might be good for the future, but he also partly wishes he had extreme post-traumatic stress or something, because then maybe he’d just forget. That would be easier, surely. Maybe it would make that horrible guilt go away.

It doesn’t take long for Gemma to return again, this time with their mother in tow. It’s scary how similar they are, especially how his Mum freezes in the doorway just like her daughter did, just staring for the longest moment in Harry’s history of moments. And funnily enough, just like Gemma, she’s suddenly at his side as quick as lightning, crushing him in the way only a mother can, desperately and lovingly all at once.

“I was so scared, Harry,” she whispers, rubbing his back gently, like he’ll break if she tries any harder. “So scared I’d never see my baby ever again. You’re here though, you’re really here and you’re really okay and – “

Harry frowns because he’s far from okay, but doesn’t comment on the fact. Let her think so, it’s kinder.

“Do you know?” He finally forces his mother to pull back, drinking in her worn features with a frown. “I mean… everything that happened?”

“We know what they do. Well… what they  _did_.”

So that meant they were all caught, right? They were jailed or dead or any other forms of justice that should feel a lot more satisfying than it does. Harry has no idea why, but he can’t really bring himself to think of that all at the moment, it’s just too painful.

Maybe he does have PTSD after all.

Suddenly though, Harry remembers the boy – no, the man. He remembers hearing the news before passing out, hearing that the stormy eyed man had escaped somehow, someway, gotten help.

“Louis,” he suddenly croaks, feeling a sort of panic rising in him. Louis and him (though not necessarily on good terms) spent so much time together, so much time in the dark. They were in hell together for a long time, and were split apart in an even more tragic way. “Where is he?”

Part of Harry doesn’t expect an answer, because his mother and sister don’t know Louis. They don’t know about the evil they experienced and the sins and failures they committed – that  _Harry_  committed.

The last thing he expects to hear though is his mother’s quiet voice, whispering two heart stopping words: “He’s here.”

Almost like it’s a cue being dropped, there he is. Standing tall and tragic in the doorway, those same stormy eyes lock with Harry’s. He looks exactly how Harry remembers, just… more so. He looks stronger, physically and mentally, harder, buffer. It’s like the fragile skin and bones Harry found his first day in hell have morphed, turned to something that can be viewed as dangerous and beautiful, frightening and gorgeous, hell and heaven.

“Louis?” Harry manages to say, wishing it doesn’t come out as a question because he already  _knows._  He knows that’s Louis, and he really shouldn’t have to ask; yet he does anyways.

“Hi, Harry.”

His voice even sounds deeper, if that’s possible, Harry thinks. How strange. Everything physical and concrete about him appears different, but what about everything else? What about all the abstract things?

“We’ll give you two some alone time, okay? We’ll be right outside.” Harry faintly hears his mother say, and weight suddenly disappears from his mattress, soft footsteps padding to the door and out and like wisps of smoke.

Harry learned this already in the dark, but now is a moment where it’s hitting harder than ever, even in the light: Silence is deafening. Really and truly, sitting and just staring at Louis while he stares back, Harry’s beginning to figure that even if he speaks now, the silence would drown it out.

Luckily, Louis doesn’t make him though, because luckily, he speaks first with a voice strong enough to break it. “How’re you feeling?” Is all he says.

Harry still has the run-over-by-a-bulldozer-and-thrown-off-a-building feeling, but for some reason that’s a lot easier to say to Louis. Shortening it though, he instead says, “Like shit.”

Louis smiles a bit, and Harry’s startled to realize it’s the first time he’s ever seen Louis smile. They’ve known each other for months – in the dark, but still – so it feels odd for the first time to be so prolonged.

“I thought you were as good as dead.”

Louis pauses before pulling up a chair, the silence threatening to deafen Harry once again. He just watches as Louis sits for a long moment, playing with his fingers and avoiding eye contact. “I was,” he finally says, frowning deeply at his fingers. “That man, the one who… bought me? He didn’t use slaves for labor or even for sex, Harry. He used them as moneymakers in a different form, training us to be fighters, illegal boxers that fought for their lives in a different ring,” he then chuckles, a bit bitterly. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, right?

“The thing is, after a month, at least, of training brutally for hours each day, I became a lot stronger. It became mental after a while, as well as physical, enough for me to get myself the courage to round up the other fighters, overthrow the ‘king’. Sounds crazy, right? Considering how the first underground operation went, I mean.”

Harry feels that wave of guilt crashing against him now, stronger and higher than ever before since Louis left. Having to face him after not being able to save him (and Adam) is almost too much.

“It’s you, you know,” Louis says next, and that’s rather startling. “You gave me hope again, just the tiniest bit to plant the idea and let it grow. After finding someone so determined, even in that hellhole… it does as much as torture does, in the opposite way. It makes you want to fight for something.”

Harry frowns the slightest bit because his hope was– and still kind of is – terrible. It was crushed under the boots of those men, spit on and degraded like the rest of him, which became more than enough to prove there was no God and there was no hope. Yet here Louis is… telling him there is and he somehow gave it to him.

“You’re the hero, you know,” Harry manages to say after a moment. “You saved the rest of us stuck in there, got those men arrested or dead. You saved the day.”

Louis gives Harry a smoldering look, one that speaks a thousand words that Harry has trouble understanding. “I disagree,” he simply says, but doesn’t elaborate. Harry doesn’t ask him to either.

There’s a lapse before Louis speaks again, hand suddenly reaching out and grasping onto Harry’s own. “Are you okay?”

Harry knows he’s not asking like before either. There’s a difference between, “How’re you feeling?” and “Are you okay?” A lot, actually. Feelings lie, even to their owners, which makes the first question so dastardly, so difficult. Being purely okay though is something  _you_ , personally, can lie about, though deep down you know what the truth is. Whether you want to admit it or face it, it’s there.

And this is suddenly the point where Harry’s not sure what to think. He’s suddenly questioning everything, why Louis really volunteered to sell himself, why Adam chose to help him, why Louis’ hand feels so right in his own…

Harry always questions things, always wants to know and be the best – or at least not fail. It’s strange, because Harry gets the feeling there’s still a lot to know about Louis Tomlinson, about the man behind the previously weak, broken shell created in the dark.

Eventually deciding to go for the completely honest answer, Harry shrugs as much as his can, ignoring the heat rushing to his palm. “Not really,” he offers, and Louis looks sad as their eyes meet for the third time in all of their history together. “Still though, I’ll get there. You will too, won’t you?”

Louis smiles a bit, giving Harry’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be okay…  _We’ll_ be okay.”

It’s strange, because Harry and Louis simply stare at each other for a long moment after that, like they’re drinking each other in with gazes alone. They’ve been through so much together while going through nothing at all; it’s strange to see, not only purely, but also in the light.

Harry doesn’t count, but he thinks he only blinks once before Louis is suddenly much closer, close enough for the skin of their foreheads to be touching. “Harry,” he breathes quietly, strangely gentle. “I know we’ve been through a lot already, and you’re still recovering now, but… will you hate me if I kiss you right now?”

Though it really shouldn’t, the question catches Harry off guard for a moment. He just stops, trying to grasp onto the concept while also not getting lost in those stormy eyes, sucking him in like a tornado. “No,” he finally says, realizing that though this seems out the blue, it really isn’t. Him and Louis share a profound bond from all they’ve lived through, all they’ve connected by. Though their relationship could go many ways after getting out, most every option leads to them being together, in some shape or form, romantic or not. This is one that Harry will gladly welcome.

“Okay,” Louis murmurs, and then his lips are descending onto Harry’s.

➵

It’s three months later in December, Christmas Eve to be more specific, and Harry and Louis are trudging through the snow together, hand in hand. It’s night and the light provided is only by the street lamps surrounding the yard, along with the faint glimmer of Christmas lights in the distance. None of that touches them for the moment though, because right now isn’t about just the holidays, it’s about them and one other person.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Louis murmurs quietly beside Harry, who is staring straight ahead like nothing else in the world matters, which it kind of doesn’t, not now.

“I’m sure,” is Harry’s only response as they come to a halt, still gripping their frosted hands together, ignoring anyone and anything else around them. The reason for this is the polished stone in front of them, obsidian black with golden engravings in swirling letters, reading:  _Adam Thomas, Beloved Son. 24th December 2005 – August 2013, Aged 7 years._

Seeing the last line hurts the most for Harry though, hurts the most because he’s still not entirely sure if it’s true:  _He was saved._

Even after these few months of freedom, Harry still thinks about the little boy he met in the dark, the little boy he attempted to save. He doesn’t know if he really did though, because even though Adam’s dead, this stone doesn’t mark his grave, only his memorial. There was no body found to bury.

Louis remains respectfully quiet this whole time, which Harry only just barely notices. He’s too absorbed in kneeling down, ignoring the cold seeping through his trousers at contact with the white powder still falling to the ground. Gingerly, he reaches up to brush a hand over the stone, clearing the minimal amount of snow clinging to the surface.

“I’m sorry Adam,” he says quietly, suddenly not feeling any of the cold. “I don’t know if you were really saved or not, to be honest, I still have guilty nightmares about you. Still… I hope you can forgive me,” after that, Harry just keeps speaking, talking about everything and nothing all at once. He thinks that though this is just a memorial site, Adam would appreciate the thought, knowing that Louis ended up being the hero, that the men who killed him were taken down themselves. There are a lot of petty little things in between, but it still fits together somehow.

When they begin the trek back to the car, Harry is relatively silent. It’s hard speaking to Adam like that, ignoring the fact that he still feels like he killed him, and it’s obvious Louis knows he still feels that way.

That’s very clear when Louis breaks the silence saying a quiet, “Should I even ask if you’re okay?”

Harry remembers him asking that three months ago in the hospital too, and he still doesn’t really know. Or no, he knows he’s still not completely, but he’s getting there. It’s as slow of a process to heal as it was to fall apart, but the latter happened eventually, didn’t it? That’s got to be enough to assure him he can heal again, him  _and_ Louis.

“Better, still,” he says instead, taking Louis’ hand again. It’s strange that now, three months later, they’re still having the same conversation and Harry’s still having that little tingly feeling at making any sort of contact with Louis. “You?”

“We’ll be okay,” Louis simply echoes from all those months ago, and the difference is that this time, Harry actually believes it. 

 


End file.
